Souillure
by Kotterin
Summary: When Arnold sees Washington kiss Lafayette, he's overcome with jealousy and decides to teach the Marquis a lesson about territory and boundaries. (Rated for noncon and violence)


There was something distinctly satisfying about the frequency of the pained whimpers issuing from the boy's mouth, and Arnold couldn't suppress a delighted smirk. Things had gone better than he'd expected. Much better.

He'd expected his leg to be a hindrance this evening, as it had been every day since that accursed day at Saratoga. He'd expected Lafayette to aim a blow at his injury, but as fortune would have it, several other generals had pressed him with more ale and wine than his young body had likely been accustomed to. Celebration, they called it.

Arnold called it opportunity. Lafayette needed to be taught a lesson about territory and boundaries, and who better to teach him than Arnold himself?

Offering to escort the young man to his tent had been simple enough, despite Lafayette's insistence that he was perfectly fine, he needed no help, he was simply tired, and whatever other words had come out of his mouth after Arnold stopped listening. And if anyone noticed the Marquis' reluctance as Arnold's hand closed around his forearm to guide him away from the table, they made no comment.

Lafayette was nowhere near as inebriated as Arnold had initially assumed, but the boy's normally sharp eyes were heavy, his pale cheeks were flushed, and every few minutes, he would give his head a little shake as though attempting to clear the haze of alcohol from his mind. In all honesty, Arnold was surprised Washington hadn't stepped in upon hearing Lafayette's objections. They had seemed so _close_ for the short time since the boy had arrived in Valley Forge. Washington was simply _delighted_ to see him, and Arnold just _knew_ His Excellency's sudden change in mood was not only due to the new alliance formed between the United States and France.

This brought with it a sickening twist in Arnold's gut that had nothing to do with the ale he'd imbibed earlier that evening, and everything to do with the way the moonlight played on Lafayette's face. Washington had _kissed_ that face only hours ago, and that fact alone was more than enough reason for Arnold to want to rip that porcelain flesh from his bones.

Perhaps Lafayette had sensed his rage, or perhaps he simply did not care for the older man's company, for as soon as they were out of earshot of the main tent, Lafayette had insisted, polite as ever, that Arnold should not trouble himself, and to not miss supper on his behalf.

"None of that," Arnold replied brusquely, not even bothering to slow his pace as he continued down the increasingly dark path. "You only just arrived this afternoon. I doubt that's enough time for you to familiarize yourself with our camp to the point where you can navigate the terrain while drunk." The objections started again, to Arnold's annoyance, and he continued as though Lafayette hadn't spoken. "Wouldn't want you to end up in Washington's bed by mistake, would we?"

 _That_ shut him up, Arnold noticed with a brief note of satisfaction, and he allowed a small smirk to grace his mouth as he heard Lafayette quicken his pace to follow. He was tempted to glance over his shoulder and see the look on Lafayette's face for himself, but he could imagine it quite clearly in his mind. Those rosy cheeks would be red as the fabric of his collar, and his eyes would be fixed on the ground in shame. No, Arnold didn't need to see the guilt painted on the boy's face to justify his actions for that night.

The tent was hardly isolated, Arnold noted with distaste, but with the majority of the men still in the midst of the night's celebrations, the location wouldn't prove problematic. Lafayette, however, very well could. His hand rested on the tent flap, but he made no move to enter as he stood regarding the general in front of him, expression unreadable.

"Was there something you wished to discuss?" Lafayette said after a moment's silence, and Arnold gave a dismissive shrug before replying.

"Nothing in particular," he said. "Only that you've made Washington very happy."

Lafayette had the audacity to look confused, as though he didn't know _exactly_ what Arnold was referring to. "He has been working towards this alliance for quite some time," he said at last. "It was not I who lifted his spirits; merely the message I delivered."

Liar.

Liarliar _liar._

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he heard the Marquis' startled yelp as he was shoved bodily into the tent. The push hadn't been as forceful as Arnold had intended, but in Lafayette's inebriated state, it was sufficient to send the younger man stumbling to the ground, looking more offended than frightened. "I am not _lying!"_ he snapped, pushing himself to his knees. "And I do not know why this matter concerns you!"

"It _concerns me,"_ Arnold retorted, voice taking on a slight mocking lilt as he mimicked Lafayette's intonations, "when some little Jimmy Round _boy_ is worming his way into my commander's _bed."_

Lafayette's mouth fell open, dark brows drawing together as his expression slowly morphed into one of sheer outrage. "How _dare_ you suggest—" he began, but Arnold didn't give him a chance to finish. He'd heard enough lies today, thank you _very_ much, and without further hesitation, brought the handle of his cane down on the side of the boy's head with a resounding _crakk._ Lafayette crumpled to the floor soundlessly, unconscious, and for a moment, Arnold debated lighting a candle to see if the boy was still breathing.

His pulse pounded in his throat at the thought of having to explain Lafayette's death to Washington. How _could_ he explain it? The whole damned tent had seen him leave with—

There was a soft whimper from the floor, and Arnold let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Lafayette's dark eyes fluttered open, and the hand that wasn't trapped beneath his body immediately flew to where the cane had made contact, wincing as he pressed his fingers against the rapidly-forming bruise on the side of his face.

"Get up," Arnold growled, waiting maybe a split second for Lafayette to comply before grabbing him by the back of his jacket and giving him a shove towards the bed. Lafayette was clearly attempting to remain upright, but the blow to his head coupled with the alcohol in his body saw him stumble to his knees mere inches from the wooden frame. Arnold noticed the way the boy's hands trembled as he clutched the bedframe, staring at Arnold over his shoulder with wide, almost child-like eyes. "You like sleeping in a general's bed, do you?" Arnold continued, and was pleased to see Lafayette visibly recoil as he approached.

He was frightened.

Good.

"Get on the bed."

Lafayette's expression shifted slightly from fear to one of outright defiance. "No."

"You," Arnold began, hand closing around the younger man's throat, "do _not,"_ shoving his face into the rough blankets, "want to play this game. Now." His fingers loosened slightly, and Lafayette inhaled with a sharp gasp. "Get. On the bed." He gave a little shove as Lafayette complied, but did not miss the glare on his face as he pointedly turned to sit on the edge, tilting his head quizzically. As though he didn't know what was coming.

"You will regret this, monsieur," he hissed, pressing his fingers to the side of his face once more.

Arnold gave a short laugh. "Not as much as you will, I'm sure," he replied. "You won't be crawling into Washington's bed after tonight, I promise you that. Doubt you'll even be able to leave your own." Lafayette seemed confused for a moment, but then his eyes shot open as the realization dawned on him, and he scrambled backwards, fumbling at his belt for a weapon.

Arnold was ready.

Lafayette had half-drawn the blade at his waist when he heard the _click_ of the firelock beside his ear, and froze. "The only reason," Arnold began, "that I'm allowing you to live is because killing you would raise too many questions." Lafayette's eyes locked with Arnold's, and the fear in his gaze only fueled the general's rage. "And as much as you _disgust_ me, I wouldn't want to jeopardize our _alliance."_ He spat the last word more than he spoke it, setting the pistol on the bedside table, just out of Lafayette's reach. "But make no mistake, I will use it if I must."

"Do not do this," Lafayette whispered.

Arnold was silent for a moment, pretending to consider it. "Take those off," he said at length, indicating the boy's breeches. When Lafayette shook his head, Arnold finally snapped.

His hand clamped over Lafayette's mouth as he shoved the boy down onto his back, ripping the blade from his belt and tossing it carelessly aside before attacking the front of his breeches. One of Lafayette's hands clawed wildly at his forearm, the other desperately trying to force Arnold's hand from his face.

Lafayette's fingernails were sharp, Arnold realized with a wince, but nowhere near as sharp as his teeth. Arnold wrenched his hand back as he felt them clamp down on the flesh of his palm, then brought it down across Lafayette's face in a sharp slap before the boy could alert any of the sentries with his screams. His face snapped to the side with the force of the blow, a long streak of blood marking the place where Arnold's hand made contact. More blood, likely Arnold's as well, stained the tips of Lafayette's teeth and trailed down his lips as he opened his mouth to shout again.

"Don't make me gag you," Arnold hissed, and Lafayette's mouth snapped shut. "One more sound out of you…" he continued, leaning uncomfortably close to the Marquis' face. He let the threat go unspoken, and instead let his tongue trail softly along the younger man's lips, gathering the stray drops of blood on the tip.

Lafayette retched softly, and Arnold pulled back as the little remaining color drained from his face. If Arnold had thought him pale before, it was nothing compared to the sweaty pallor of the boy's face now.

Another retch, and Arnold pulled back just enough for Lafayette to roll over, body trembling as he heaved and vomited over the side of the bed. Arnold's nose wrinkled slightly, and his stomach twisted as the boy retched again. "Let's hope you didn't behave like this for _His Excellency,"_ he commented over Lafayette's ragged gasps. "You might have given him offence."

Lafayette gasped again, desperately fighting to calm his stomach enough to speak. _"Je ne l'ai jamais fait,"_ he managed finally, tears streaming down his face and nose running while he spat on the floor. _"Je ne le ferai jamais. Je n'avais aucun intérêt à le faire! C'est honteux!"_

"'Fraid I don't understand any of that parleyvoo shite," Arnold commented lightly, giving Lafayette's breeches a firm tug. The Marquis brought an arm up to cover his face, mouth forming words that were barely audible.

 _no, no, no…_

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Arnold had Lafayette's breeches tangled around his knees, and was making quick work of his boots, and the realization that there was _no escape_ finally began to sink in. "Bite me again, and it'll only be worse for you," Arnold said in warning as he shoved three of his fingers into Lafayette's mouth. "Suck."

Trembling, the Marquis complied, and Arnold's smirk widened. The sadistic pleasure illuminating the general's face gave him the likeness of a demon, and Lafayette knew he would be seeing that face in his nightmares for a long time to come.

Disgusting as the act was, Lafayette was reluctant to let the general remove those foul digits from his mouth. He was in no way experienced in the sort of exploit Arnold was forcing upon him, but he understood the mechanics well enough. And he knew what would happen once the general grew bored of gagging him with his fingers.

All too soon, Arnold withdrew his fingers from Lafayette's mouth with a wet _pop,_ and Lafayette had to fight the urge to vomit once again as he felt the wet appendages trailing along his thighs before they were wrenched forcefully apart.

The first finger was uncomfortable, but nowhere near the outright pain he'd expected, given Arnold's earlier mannerisms. Still, every fiber of his being screamed for him to run. To aim a blow at Arnold's wounded leg. To make a go for the pistol laying only _just_ out of reach. To fight his way to the discarded saber on the floor. Anything to get that finger _out_ of him.

But where would he run? To Washington? He trusted His Excellency the way he'd trusted his own father, but how was one to broach a subject such as this? Would Washington even _believe_ that his finest general, the same one who had sealed the alliance between their countries with his acts of heroism on the battlefield, was capable of such vile acts? Or, worse still, would _he_ be blamed? Would Washington assume that, in his inebriated state, _Lafayette_ had initiated the incident? He was certain Arnold would claim he had, were he confronted, if he admitted to anything at all.

Despite the fact France and the United States were now allies, Lafayette could not help but feel as though he were trapped in enemy territory. The Americans were loyal to Arnold. And whatever slanderous words Arnold chose to say, they would undoubtedly be believed. And yet, returning home was out of the question as well. Requesting leave would raise questions he could never bring himself to answer, and if he were to simply flee, he would be branded a _déserteur_ and punished accordingly.

A second finger joined the first all too quickly, and this time, there was pain. Lafayette's teeth sunk down on his lower lip in an attempt to stifle his cry, but Arnold didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he had, for he thrust the third finger in only moments later, stabbing them deep inside without care or consideration. The skin of his hand was rough and calloused, and his nails, though short, were slightly on the ragged side.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Lafayette felt the fingers slide out of him, and he released a ragged breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The salty taste of iron flooded his mouth, and before he could wonder where it had come from, he felt the answering sting in his bitten-bloody lip.

But the relief was short-lived. Lafayette's heart raced as he heard the rustling of fabric, and he slowly moved his arm away from his face just in time to see Arnold freeing himself from his breeches. The nausea coiled in the pit of his stomach as the general aligned himself with his sore opening, and Lafayette clamped his eyes shut, turning his head to face anything except the vile man on top of him.

 _"Ange de Dieu,_  
 _qui es mon gardien—"_

"Stop that."

 _"—éclaire-moi, défends-moi,_  
 _conduis-moi et dirige-moi—"_

Lafayette broke off with a short yelp when the back of Arnold's hand cracked across his face. "Don't make me change my mind about gagging you."

He tried to keep quiet. He truly did, but the overwhelming, ripping _pain_ as Arnold pushed inside was too much, and he didn't realize he'd screamed until three fingers—the same ones the general had violated him with minutes before—were shoved unceremoniously into his mouth.

Once fully sheathed inside the trembling body beneath him, Arnold pulled out and thrust back in even harder than before, and Lafayette screamed again as he felt something tear deep inside him. He knew there was blood. There had to be. Arnold's movements were smoother now, and he could feel the wet blood leaking onto the blankets beneath him every time the general pulled out.

Time had slowed to a grueling halt, and Lafayette couldn't have hazarded a guess as to how long he'd been lying beneath the older man. His body was slowly going numb, and he retreated into his mind, desperately seeking out memories that would be some small comfort. If he could only get past the foul smell of vomit and sweat and blood, he might recall the sweet aroma of lilies and irises, growing wild in the fields near Chavaniac. If only he could turn a deaf ear on the breathless grunts of the man above him, he might hear the soft chirping of a shrike in the distance.

"Like to see Washington lay a hand on you after this." Arnold's voice was a distant sound, like the wind blowing against a windowpane. All Lafayette had to do was keep that window closed, blocking out any indication of reality. If he could retreat far enough inside himself, he would be okay. He was going to be okay. He was going to—

The metaphorical window abruptly shattered as Arnold, clearly tired of being ignored, removed his fingers from Lafayette's mouth and wrapped them around the soft flesh between his legs, gentle strokes contrasting sharply with the brutal pace he'd set. Lafayette's eyes snapped open, and he tried desperately to pull away, face flushing with horrified shame as he felt his body react to the general's ministrations.

"No," he protested, clawing at Arnold's wrists. "Please, no..." His pleas were cut short as Arnold's free hand closed around his throat, cutting off both oxygen and any sounds Lafayette could try to make.

In a wild, anguished moment, Lafayette's eyes fell on the pistol beside the bed. If he could just reach it… if he could gain the smallest bit of leverage, then maybe… just _maybe…_ He wouldn't be fast enough to shoot Arnold; there was no question in his mind about that. Nor would he be able to turn the weapon on himself. Arnold would never allow it. But if he could just pull the trigger, the sound would alert _some_ one. _Any_ one.

Arnold's hand loosened slightly just as Lafayette' vision began to darken, and he gasped for air while the general's other hand quickened its pace, bringing a choked noise from the Marquis' throat that had nothing to do with his attempts to breathe. Never in his life had Lafayette felt more degraded and humiliated than he did the moment he realized he'd been bucking his hips into Arnold's grasp. Hot tears stung in his eyes, and he brought his hands to claw at his own face, praying the pain would distract him from the growing pleasure coiling in his abdomen. He couldn't be enjoying this. He couldn't give that demon the satisfaction of seeing him come undone. He couldn't.

He did.

Arnold's pace was relentless, and there was nothing Lafayette could do but desperately thrash against the blankets, too far gone to speak, yet still turning his head from side to side in a last expression of defiance, a last denial as he frantically clung to the remaining threads of his self control, feeling them fray all too quickly. With a final cry that was half-sob, half-scream, he felt the threads snap, and as the tears spilled from his eyes, his lower body arched sharply off the bed as he spilled into Arnold's hand with a wanton, _whorish_ moan. The pleasure was nearly enough to mask the pain of Arnold's now-uncoordinated thrusts, but in dulling one pain, it left another, worse, one in its wake.

As the high slowly faded, Lafayette finally felt all the resistance leave his body, and he sank bonelessly into the mattress. He was vaguely aware of Arnold above him, slamming into him once, twice, thrice more before pulling him close and releasing into his body with a guttural moan. But he didn't care. He lay with his eyes fixed on the canvas roof above him, tears leaking down his face, blood and semen leaking from where Arnold was finally, _finally_ withdrawing, and let his mind go blank.

He didn't move when Arnold pressed a deceptively chaste kiss to each side of his face. He hardly dared to breathe as the man finally climbed off the bed, nor did he blink when the general retrieved his pistol from the table. He knew he should try to cover himself, or to try and staunch the blood seeping into the mattress, but he just _couldn't._ Arnold had humiliated him enough. He wouldn't lick his wounds in front of the man like a beaten dog.

"Sleep well," Arnold said finally, once he'd deemed himself presentable again. "You're expected early tomorrow morning."

 _"Laissez-moi,"_ Lafayette whispered, not caring whether or not the general understood. The man would do as he pleased.

But Arnold seemed to understand the tone, and as he made to exit the tent, he turned partially and shot a meaningful look at Lafayette's jacket. "You might want to clean that before joining us."

And then he was gone. Lafayette was still for another few minutes, ears straining to hear the general's uneven footfalls, praying with every scrap of his spirit that the man would not return.

When it became clear that he would not be returning, Lafayette risked a glance at his jacket as he struggled to sit up on the bed. Sure enough, the dark fabric was soiled with splatters of his own release, already half-dried, and quite noticeable in its location. It would be all but impossible to hide.

It was a strange thing, in light of all that had happened that night, for him to finally break over. But the incriminating stain on his jacket was the last straw, and with a savage shriek, he grabbed the first item within reach—a bottle of some sort, containing God-only-knew what—and hurled it across the room, feeling none of the expected satisfaction when it burst into a thousand glittering shards upon impact with a sturdy-looking chair.

He knew he should stop the bleeding. Dress himself, and seek out the camp's doctor. Wash the vile taste of that disgusting man from his mouth. His body disagreed, however, and in that moment, alone in the darkness of his tent, all Lafayette could do was weep.


End file.
